


in between

by kingmakr



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Heartbreak, M/M, Purple Prose, vague descriptions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingmakr/pseuds/kingmakr
Summary: In which Saber is terrible at comforting crying friends.





	in between

 

He comes to you in tears – eyes red as proof that salt has long been rubbed into the span of his wounds. The first clue that something was undeniably wrong, and yet you never really see the signs or at least properly address them.

Instead, you lean against the doorframe with a smug look in your eyes and a crude joke hanging off of your mouth. _‘Already in tears,’_ you were going to say – _‘already in tears and I haven’t even touched you yet.’_ But even before you let the first word slip, let alone spare him a knowing grin, he shoves you back inside and struggles with the lock until it clicks shut.

Soon enough, it’s your shirt he’s fumbling with – erratically, frantically, and aggressively. First, groping the plain of your chest and then ripping the last of your few good shirts off. It takes a second button to pop off ( _newly mended,_ you might add) for you to straighten out your thoughts and push him off – it takes that to get you to demand what the _fuck_ has gotten into him.

He growls at that note. He who asks for everything soft and gentle – the one who asks you to leave your sputtering curses and animalistic tendencies by the doorstep is, in fact, growling at you. He is in tears and he is growling at you.

“My, my” he calls in honeyed venom, “you’re duller than I expected.” It was his own form of crude humor. It is the last thing he gives you before he takes your face into his hands and crashes his mouth onto yours – teeth clashing and gnawing on the peeling skin of your lips. He’s engraving crescent moons into your flesh – erratic, frantic and aggressive as before. You can’t help the sound that escapes from your mouth at what the hell happens after.

“Fuck me, Saber.” Your lips are bleeding.  “Fuck me hard,” and he’s using those ugly words which he swore only belonged in the hollows of your mouth; definitely an ill-fit for him. The only thing more out of character than that is the way you shove him off once more – all to tell him to slow the _fuck_ down and to use his _goddamn_ mouth for something other than sex.

That was all easier said than done.

Extracting such words from him was…like walking on hunting grounds filled with traps: one misstep meant falling into the snare of his biting wit and wilting patience. You tread carefully, and even when he gives you the words, they’re hidden behind a thousand and one layers of sad euphemisms and sardonic laughter. The message, however, was simple: Valbar does not love him, and the painful truth of it was he had expected it all from the beginning.

His knuckles are white now and in his eyes, you can only make out a visual red sea – all this without a single touch from you. _'If anything,'_ you think in the most unneeded and unhelpful fashion, _'this whole situation was already screwing him over tenfold.'_

Your hands fall to the circle of his belt as you begin to undo it piece by piece, slipping it off slowly then pulling it off all at once; the thing drops onto the floor. You hook your index finger on one of the loops of his clothing, tugging it as it were a leash.

“Let’s go,” your voice husks, and he follows you with neither enthusiasm nor dread.

 

You fuck him, and even then you can’t completely say you truly did. It was the slowest and the most careful you’ve ever been with him; the whole ordeal just sat in between being more than a fuck and less than love.

Surprisingly, it is he himself who gets on his hands and knees. Strange, seeing as you often argued about the positions and logistics of your private liaisons: he, preferring facing up and facing down, and you, preferring something impersonal as it should be. He’s clutching your pillow as if he’s ready to bury himself deep into it. All of that, and then weep a thousand more tears for his lost love. Truly, this was getting messy.

You sigh, and it is you yourself who flips him over – facing up and facing down like he wanted once upon a time. You don’t know what possessed you to do this. Perhaps you were forcing him to forget Valbar’s face – perhaps it was a new form of emotional sadism you’ve taken a guilty liking to. You push his hair back, taking a look once more into those swollen eyes – practically examining them to a fault in order to desperately read them.

“Get on with it,” he commands – prepared and ready for it. He is neither soft nor aggressive; he simply is. And it is in that simplicity you take him.

There is a sound that escapes from his lips that was closer to an exasperated sigh than a moan; it was as if he was relieved you’ve gotten to it at last. However, you don’t move all at once – not immediately at the very least. You’re making him savor you, his medium and method of release; that, or you’re the one savoring _him._

When you finally move, it is slow and is kept consistently so. With the way you entered, you half expect him to demand to move faster, harder – anything but this numbing pace and anything that dulls the pain. However, he keeps his quiet and silently tries to match your rhythm.

You try to look at him again, checking how those tear-stained eyes are faring for the last time. He has them closed. If not that, he’s looking anywhere and everywhere but at you. You respond by putting a hand under his head – cradling him before you gently guide him to bury himself instead on the span of your shoulders. He follows you with neither enthusiasm nor dread – _hell,_ he even wraps his arms around you in order to better hide himself away.

Moments passed and you try to speed up your pace, but even then you are still at the slowest and most careful you’ve ever been with him. Too gentle and too soft as if he’ll break – well, as if he’ll break any further. There is a quiet panic that surges through you upon the realization that he is crying again; there is a wet salt resting on your shoulders as he weeps. You calm these anxieties and remind yourself that no, he is not weeping because of you – that no, he is not weeping _for you._ But when had such thoughts mattered before?

You move together, but not as one – you two are clearly moving towards two different directions. He was always going to move towards his love – spurned or not, requited or not. He was always moving towards Valbar, and you…hell, you don’t even know where you’re going at all.

The only satisfaction you have this night is in the fact that when he comes, he’s not calling another person’s name. But then again, he’s not calling yours either.

Your breath is heavy and you fall onto him. You realize that this is the part where you tell him to leave – the part where you remind him this was all physical and impersonal. They live, the fuck, they die: a cycle that runs over and over again if both of them cared enough to continue. This is the part where he leaves, but you are too out of breath to tell him to. You are too tired, you justify, as you let him stay the night.

He doesn’t.

He stays a minute or two to catch his breath, but it’s mostly to dry his tears. He will probably cite something such as too much alcohol at best or an eye infection at worst if anyone asked. What he can’t have is people seeing the actual tears and the look of hopelessness that he expressed – the ones you caught and remember so vividly.

            Carefully, he leaves the hold of your arms and picks up his clothes – trousers and shirt first, shoes next and his belt last. He picks up his clothes, wears them presumably, undoes the lock of your door and exits.

 He leaves in the opposite way as he came – quiet and unnoticed. But you notice, by the gods, you notice. For all his nimble skills and fleet-footedness, it’s hard not to notice when he’s gone and has left you in between.

**Author's Note:**

> [salesman voice] the ship name is called Laber -- as in "these two are such an emotional laber "


End file.
